


Piecewise

by SilentProtagonist000



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Background Mercedes/Annette, Bisexual Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Bisexual Sylvain Jose Gautier, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Name-Calling, Sylvain Jose Gautier Being An Idiot, au where rodrigue lives because i forgot he dies oop, everyone is bi in this fic honestly, i grew up with horses so this fic is only to flex my farrier's knowledge, local men bad at feelings, no beta we die like Glenn, so glad that's a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25683247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentProtagonist000/pseuds/SilentProtagonist000
Summary: “Sylvain looks at you like you walk on water,” Dorothea says. “Everyone has noticed. The professor has noticed. You know how bad she is at social cues. Everyone, except for you, I suppose, and we’re sick of it. Mercie and Annie have gotten their act together, now it’s your turn.”“It’s because it’s not happening,” Felix deflects, “and you are all imagining it.”--Felix falls for Sylvain in pieces.He hates it.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 151





	Piecewise

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to support me, you can email me at silentprotagonist000@gmail.com. I take commissions! [I'm also on tumblr! Come say hi!](http://terminal-decline.tumblr.com)
> 
> yeah I made Annette a wyvern lord, what about it? fight me
> 
> I've played more of the game since my last fic so hopefully shit fucks a little better yanno

He's twelve when Felix first notices Sylvain’s freckles.

It’s hunting season in Fraldarius—the winter’s last dew is staining the grass below the hooves of their horses as they ride through Lord Rodrigue’s back pastures. Felix is trailing behind seventeen paces behind Sylvain on his Fódlan Trotter, grey fur matted with dirt and exertion, doing everything in his power to keep his eye on his best friend’s back. It’s gotten broader since they were young, Felix notices, and he prays that Sylvain’s rashness won’t let it out of his sight. Sylvain was always better on horseback than him and while Felix knows it foolish to depend on him too much, the sight of those familiar shoulders is reassuring.

(Broader. They’ve gotten _broader_ , Felix thinks again, unbidden.)

Felix’s heart is still thudding in his ribcage, the cooldown from the excitement of the hunt an empty whisper in the fibers of his pectoris. They’d lost the hare at least a mile back, toward the gates of the Fraldarius estate, the blur of tawny movement dissolving into the midst of Felix’s shouting and Sylvain’s poorly timed arrows.

“You know I’m no good with bows,” Sylvain had said by way of an answer as Felix had yanked his horse’s reins to a standstill and tossed him a backhanded glare once they’d lost sight of the rabbit.

Indeed, Sylvain’s archery was subpar—the Gautiers were lance-wielders, after all—but Felix was still seething, even as they roamed further north to find a new mark. Where hell did the Goddess get off, letting the annual virgin hunt of spring fall on the same day as the Margrave’s visit? And why did _Sylvain have to accompany him, every goddess-damned time?_

Felix hadn’t always felt this way—he used to look forward to seeing that shock of red hair riding in on cobblestones and a frilly Gautier mare behind his father, used to sit at the bay window in his father’s office the day of Margrave Gautier’s expected arrival and stare endlessly at the emerald hill that would give birth to the wonderful sight that was his best friend. Used to love collecting Sylvain in his arms with an excited shout as he dismounted at the Fraldarius estate gates, used to feel warm down to his toes as the bigger boy buried his head in his hair.

Not anymore.

He hates Sylvain now. Hates him, hates him, _hates_ him. Hates that hair, hates his terrible archery, hates the confident way he rides ahead of him, hates the essence of Sylvain Jose Gautier.

(Him and his broad shoulders.)

Seventeen paces ahead, Felix sees Sylvain tug on his mare’s reigns with an even-keeled _whoa_. Obedient, she stops in her tracks and Felix feels a flare of anger. _If only girls listened to me like Suffolk does_ , Sylvain had told Felix just earlier that day.

He hates Sylvain.

Felix clicks his mount into a trot, coming up alongside Sylvain. “What’s the holdup?” he snaps. He wants to find another hare and shoot it down and just get this over with—

Unfortunately, Sylvain turns to look at him and Felix is subsequently struck by lightning.

It comes to him in the form of Sylvain’s freckles—flecks of dark brown peppering his skin, running a grand bridge across his nose and crowding in the crease between his eyebrows. There are a few on his chin, parentheses as compared to the large number above them. Because the Goddess hates him and wants him to suffer, Felix notices that there are also some on his lower lip—they’re lighter there, almost specters, haunting the plump red flesh and now Felix’s thoughts.

 _Oh no_ , he thinks, stomach sinking like a stone.

“…lix?” He hears Sylvain saying, distant, as if Felix is hearing him from underwater. “Hey, are you okay?”

Felix comes back to reality, blinking as he meet’s Sylvain’s concerned gaze. As quickly as the moment arrives, it disappears, and Felix is left sitting stupidly on his horse and mentally scrambling to pretend that he hadn’t just gotten the most uncomfortable revelation of his young life thus far.

I’m fine,” he says quickly, even though the frown painting Sylvain’s ( _dumb, idiotic, gorgeous_ —) face shows that Sylvain’s not buying it. “I lost my focus for a moment. What did you say?”

“I was saying that maybe we should turn back,” Sylvain says. “Maybe there’s a nest closer to your estate that the first hare came from. I don’t think we’re getting anywhere out here.”

Felix wants to scoff, to argue, to tell him that’s a terrible idea—but the fight has left him, the residual burn from the lightning draining him of his energy. He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “Do whatever you want,” he says.

Sylvain does, nodding and guiding Suffolk back into action, turning around and beginning the ride back to the Fraldarius estate. As before, Felix stays seventeen paces behind.

 _Freckles_ , he thinks. Fucking _freckles._

Eighteen paces, then.

* * *

It’s Sylvain’s hands, next.

Just like everything else, Felix has come to hate Garreg Mach. The food isn’t great, Dimitri is in his class, and his professor is making him study _magic._ Magic! When Felix confronts her about it, she just blinks calmly at him with those vacuous navy blue eyes and feeds him some drivel about _magic will make you a better swordsman._ Like shit. Felix simply cannot stand it here.

And Sylvain is here.

He’s become even more insufferable in the five years since the hunt—Felix has only seen him a handful of times since, with Margrave Gautier’s visits to Fraldarius becoming much more infrequent and with Felix avoiding Sylvain like those freckles will give him typhoid. But now they’re at the same officers’ academy, in the same class, sitting at _the same desk_ because the professor loves to curse Felix for his hubris.

Felix is at the training grounds, cutting up dummies as if he’ll somehow be able to channel his anger toward having to sit next to Sylvain Jose Gautier for eight hours every day into self-improvement. He’s sick of hearing Sylvain prattle on about tavern wenches—sick of listening to him complain about how his farrier’s tools are rusting or how some girl has roughed him up for cheating on her, _again_. Sick of being forced to spend hours next to his profile, more chiseled at nineteen that it ever was at twelve, watching the way his amber eyes light up at the professor’s lectures on lances—

Another training dummy hits the ground in a shower of hay. Felix is breathing hard.

_He hates Sylvain so much._

“Wow, nice work,” a familiar baritone speaks from the entrance of the training grounds. Felix turns just in time to see Sylvain sauntering towards him, easygoing smile breaching his face, iron lance in one hand and his shirt in another.

Sylvain is shirtless and Felix wishes he were dead, right now, right this second.

“What the hell do you want?” he growls. He tries to make the words have bite, but it’s been years since Sylvain has reacted to Felix’s acid and he doesn’t now, either. Instead, Sylvain just smiles wider and tosses his shirt off into some corner, Felix doesn’t care because there’s freckles on his chest too, definition in his abs, a roguish scar running across _—_

“Just here to train,” Sylvain says casually, like he does it all the time and isn’t a slacker. “The professor told me I’d find you here. Wanna spar?”

“Why are you not wearing a shirt?” Felix demands to know, ignoring the way his stomach flips at the notion that _Sylvain was looking for him, of his own accord._

Sylvain waves his hand dismissively. “Always so hung up on the details, Fe,” he chides and Felix cringes at that childhood nickname, like they’re still _such_ good friends now. “Can’t I want to spar with my best friend? It’s been ages and I want to see how I measure up.” That charming, boyish grin is contagious and Felix wonders if this is what’s it’s like to be on the receiving end of Sylvain’s philandering.

The philandering (Felix notes bitterly) is working, however, because Felix decides to draw his sword before him and not look a gift horse in the mouth. “Fine,” he spits. “But keep your guard up. I won’t hold back.”

Sylvain takes his stance, biceps taut and flexing, and Felix almost fumbles his weapon. “I’d expect nothing less,” he replies.

Felix knows the Gautier fighting style like the hilt of his sword—defensive but not lumbering, methodical, slow with careful and powerful blows. It’s the antithesis to the swift, offensive Fraldarius way his father taught him, which makes Sylvain the perfect training partner. Even now, with two years separating them and countless fighting matches, they’re on equal footing.

At least they would be had Sylvain decided to fight fairly and _wear a goddess-damned shirt_. Felix prides himself on his razor-sharp focus in battle, but the battlefield typically does not have him facing Sylvain’s tanned, pockmarked skin and thick arms that drive Felix completely and utterly insane. That razor-sharp focus is dulled to bluntness against Sylvain.

The consequences are dire—Sylvain manages to land a lucky blow to Felix’s left shoulder with the shaft of his lance and the force of it knocks the air from Felix’s lungs. Winded, he stumbles backwards, clutching his shoulder with a bitten-off hiss. He attempts to regain lost ground by launching towards Sylvain off the arch of his right foot; instead, he slips and falls forward.

Felix barely hears the clatter of Sylvain’s lance hitting the floor as Felix tumbles into Sylvain’s grasp. Large, warm hands wrap around his sword arm, encircling his forearm and coming to rest at Felix’s shoulderblade. Once more, lightning strikes.

Felix is suddenly, acutely aware of how gigantic Sylvain’s hands are.

Sylvain has always been larger than Felix—he’s had a head over him since they were boys, a few more inches to the width of his shoulders, a couple sizes up in riding boots and leather gloves. But now, they are akin to his freckles—branding Felix like a hot iron as he realizes just how huge and strong Sylvain is. Though fabric is separating the pads of Sylvain’s fingers and Felix’s skin, he can still feel the rough bumps of callouses from lance handling. He feels Sylvain’s left hand nearly engulfing his shoulder, his other grasp on Felix’s arm bruising, and Felix invites the thought of those hands doing _things_ to him.

Holding him down, grabbing his waist ( _could his fingers touch?_ Felix nearly becomes dizzy at the thought), settled under his thighs as Sylvain picks him up, wrapped cleanly around his neck—

“Fe?”

Felix looks up at Sylvain and meets warm amber, tepid with concern.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Sylvain apologizes. “I shouldn’t have hit you that hard, I knocked you off your game—”

Felix jerks out of his grasp, brushing himself off and willing himself to look anywhere except at Sylvain. “It’s fine,” he grits out. “I asked for it.” The phrase falls from his tongue before he can stop it and the implication of it makes Felix’s face alight with shame.

“Still, it’s gonna leave a bruise,” Sylvain says. If he notices Felix is blushing, he doesn’t comment on it. “You can punch me if you want, I deserve it.”

“No,” Felix says, although his fist itches with the desire to do just that, thinking that _maybe_ if he marred Sylvain’s face that he wouldn’t feel like he was roasting every time Sylvain opened his mouth. “I’m done for today.” He slides his sword in its sheath and sees Sylvain’s surprised stare.

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius, done training?” Sylvain asks. “Color me shocked.”

“I’m tired,” Felix grumbles, even though his thundering pulse and the way his hands are trembling speak a different truth.

Sylvain clicks his tongue and stoops to pick up his lance. “A shame,” he says as he straightens his posture. “I was having fun.” His voice drops, low and smoky, and Sylvain is giving him a half-lidded stare. Felix is too far away to tell, but he thinks his pupils are fattening.

 _If only girls listened to me like Suffolk does_ ,

 _Oh no._ Felix absolutely refuses to do this now.

“Then stay here and train,” Felix sniffs. “By yourself.” Briskly, he shoves past Sylvain, heading towards the doors of the training grounds and pretending to not hear Sylvain’s groans of protest.

He wraps his own hand around his forearm once he’s turned the corner. His fingertips do not touch.

* * *

Afterwards, Felix is hexed.

He knows he’s cursed because he finds himself transfixed with progressively more and more parts of Sylvain. Three weeks later, it’s Sylvain’s legs, gripping Suffolk’s sides as he gallops headfirst into Bernadetta’s battalion of shrieking wyvern lords at the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. A month goes by and then it’s Sylvain’s back, trapezius straining as he carries buckets of water while wearing a thin white shirt to the kitchen for the cooks. Two months later, it’s Sylvain’s laugh, mellow and rich as he unshackles a genuine chuckle at one of Ashe’s terrible jokes. Felix becomes more and more hopeless with every day that goes by.

When Felix becomes captivated with Sylvain’s (white and frustratingly perfect) teeth, he realizes that he should probably talk to Sylvain about this. Of course, he then proceeds to spend another month wondering how to word _hey Sylvain I am head over heels for you and want you to hold me down with those hands of yours and fuck me into a sobbing mess_ in a way that won’t have Sylvain avoiding him for the rest of his life, but by the time he does, Edelgard’s plotting to take down the church and war has broken out and the professor is missing and Felix is back in Fraldarius.

Felix decides that he would like to kill Edelgard.

For five years, Felix barely sees Sylvain. Margrave Gautier and Duke Fraldarius are understandably burning the candle at both ends, being the only two noble houses in Faergus lofty enough to oppose Edelgard’s Empire. Whenever the Gautiers trail over the emerald hills of Fraldarius, it is no longer out of leisure and the familiar shock of red hair at the Margrave’s side is gone, on the front lines.

Once again, Felix feels seventeen, eighteen paces behind Sylvain.

But, less than a fortnight from Garreg Mach’s millennium festival, Sylvain pulls on the reins by arriving at his doorstep with Ingrid and begging him to accompany them back to the monastery to make good on the promise their class made all those years ago. Briefly, Felix considers declining—his father is chin-deep in paperwork and the anniversary of Glenn’s death is tomorrow and _Goddess_ did Rodrigue become a beast on that day every year—but Sylvain looks at him pleadingly and Felix packs a knapsack, because Felix cannot refuse Sylvain a damn thing.

On their journey south, while Ingrid is scouting ahead on her Pegasus, Felix sprains his ankle and winds up on Suffolk’s back, apparently also unable to refuse Sylvain’s help. He’s sitting up, tense as a bowstring and actively avoiding touching Sylvain at all costs, but Sylvain is eighteen paces ahead.

“You’ll fall off if you don’t hold onto me, you know,” Sylvain says gently in that baritone, warm as campfire embers.

Because Felix is completely hopeless, he relents, snaking his arms around Sylvain’s waist. For a moment, he is overwhelmed with the sloping taper of Sylvain’s midriff, thinning just above his hips—but it’s no longer a lightning strike, because Felix is used to these feelings now. Instead, he indulges by leaning into Sylvain’s form, pressing his cheek against Sylvain’s armor. The metal is cold to the touch. Felix shivers, because of the armor and nothing else.

The swaying rhythm of Suffolk’s stride and the cool steel of Sylvain’s armor is a lullaby. Felix falls asleep.

He’s caught up.

* * *

Once they’re back at Garreg Mach, Annette invites Felix for tea.

Once again, Felix considers declining—he’s tired, he thinks, from having to clean up the Boar Prince’s mess and shuffling him off to some dark corner of the cathedral to seethe and fester. He’s tired, he thinks, from the rowdy class reunion, with Mercedes crying into his shoulder and Ashe gushing at how handsome Felix looks with shorter hair. He’s tired, he thinks, and he wants nothing more than to ride a hundred miles atop Suffolk, fast asleep against Sylvain.

But it has been ten years since the first hunt of spring in Fraldarius and Felix is hopeless.

He has tea with Annette.

* * *

Annette Fantine Dominic and Sylvain are similar, Felix decides.

Annette is a redhead. Annette straddles her wyvern and juggles her axe with the same self-assurance that Sylvain does with Suffolk and his lance. Annette’s demeanor is carefree, but her scars run deep. If Felix closes his eyes, he can pretend.

But, as the weeks together wear on, Felix comes to understand that Annette is _not_ Sylvain. She has curves and they’re too soft—they’re not hard edges, like Sylvain’s calloused hands and thick arms. Her scent is feminine, floral, and carries no promise of stable musk and sweat. Her laugh is high-pitched, a soprano. Felix likes Annette, he is attracted to her—but she rides wyverns and not horses and well, Felix is scared of heights.

To Felix’s surprise, Annette cracks first. She bursts into tears one night in Felix’s bed; she looks ridiculous, cheeks ruddy and eyes red, snot running down her lips, completely naked. Felix imagines he doesn’t look any more flattering, though.

“I can’t do this,” she snivels. “I’m so sorry, Felix. It’s just not the same.”

Felix listens as Annette describes a pipe dream, emotions running deep for a woman with light hair and an airy laugh and sultry indigo eyes. She was distracting herself, she claims, because she had a crush on Felix during their academy days and maybe, _maybe_ she could forget about Mercedes if she was in Felix’s bed instead.

Felix is looking into a mirror. He does not tell Annette this.

Instead, he assures her with halfhearted _it’s okay_ s and _I don’t hate you_ s because for once in his life, he doesn’t hate someone—he can’t hate Annette, not like this, not when she is also dreaming of someone else’s armor. He ushers her out with well wishes and one final kiss that feels like a vague promise.

Later that week, on the battlefield, Felix sees Annette conferring with Sylvain at the front of the formation. They break and Annette takes flight; as she shoulders her axe, Felix notices that her posture is even more brazen than usual.

Sylvain follows on Suffolk. He looks awkward.

Sylvain Jose Gautier, master equestrian and cavalier, awkward on the back of a horse.

Suddenly, the lightning bolt is back.

* * *

Dorothea hits Felix in the face with a Thoron.

“Would you say something to him already?” she says immediately afterwards, like Felix’s entire body isn’t tingling with electricity.

Felix tries to shake off the magical attack and _absolutely is not shaking off her comment_ , frayed at the force of it. He and Dorothea have gotten strangely close since returning to the monastery—they’re both the only Mortal Savants in the Kingdom army, because maybe the professor was right and magic _did_ make him a better swordsman, but Felix won’t admit it aloud. They train together now four times per week, trading blows and Miasmas indiscriminately.

Felix says nothing and attempts a Thunder spell in response, but Dorothea deftly dodges it. Felix manages to duck out of the way of yet another Thoron—Felix may be physically stronger, but Dorothea… Felix has watched her literally boil a man’s blood. He’s a little afraid of her.

He’s also fearful of her deadeye perception, because she scowls when Felix doesn’t speak. “Seriously, Felix,” Dorothea says. “It’s pathetic, watching the two of you dance around each other. Just go to him and let him drill some sense into you.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” Felix knows exactly whom Dorothea is talking about.

Dorothea draws her Levin sword and darts over, grazing Felix’s sword arm with the jagged blade. Felix winces, but he’s not sure if it’s from the attack. “Have you seen the way Sylvain is acting lately?” she says. “He’s slouching on his steed. He dropped his lance in the middle of battle the other day. A girl from the village asked him out and he _turned her down, Felix._ ”

Felix wrinkles his nose and parries another blow from Dorothea. It’s true, Sylvain has been looking thoroughly distracted as of late, but Felix was eager to pin the blame on yet another failed conquest than _himself._

“I haven’t noticed,” Felix lies. He manages to land a hit on Dorothea’s flank with the blunt edge of his sword, but Dorothea doesn’t flinch. “Haven’t been spending time around him lately.” That much is true—Sylvain has been keeping his distance, no longer hovering in Felix’s orbit, giving him more of those classic forced smiles and tissue paper laughter. Felix doesn’t know what his fucking problem is and he doesn’t care, not even a little.

Dorothea rolls her eyes and groans. “You’re both so stupid,” she sighs. “Listen, Felix—”

Felix is done with this conversation. He casts a Miasma at her, which Dorothea deftly avoids without fanfare. Once more, she hits him in the face with Thoron and an angry glare that does as much damage as the spell.

“I _said,_ listen, Felix,” she snaps. Felix grumbles and begrudgingly drops his sword. He doesn’t want his blood boiled.

“I’m no stranger to… reverent stares,” Dorothea begins, flipping her hair. “Having given plenty myself and been on the receiving end of many.”

“How very humble of you,” Felix scoffs.

Dorothea continues anyway. “Sylvain looks at you like you walk on water,” she says. “Everyone has noticed. The professor has noticed. You know how bad she is at social cues. Everyone, except for you, I suppose, and we’re sick of it. Mercie and Annie have gotten their act together, now it’s your turn.”

Felix hates to admit it, but that’s a fair enough point—Mercedes and Annette have been cuddlier than usual, regarding each other with an affection that transcended platonic. Felix was happy enough for them, he supposed.

“It’s because it’s not happening,” Felix deflects, “and you are all imagining it.”

For a moment, Felix thinks that Dorothea is going to cook his skin from the withering stare she gives him, but she eventually just sighs again. “I can’t believe how stupid you are,” she repeats. “You’re stupid. Sylvain is stupid. I’ve got half a mind to lock you two in a room together and make you get it over with.”

In lieu of an answer, Felix picks up his sword and goes to the weapons rack at the back of the training grounds to rerack his weapons. “Same time tomorrow?” Felix says.

“You’re hopeless,” Dorothea grumbles. Felix hears her depart the training grounds, heels sharp against the stone floor.

Once more, Felix hates to admit it—a fair enough point.

* * *

Nevertheless, that night, Felix’s feet and Dorothea’s pronged tongue take him to the stables.

Sylvain tends to Suffolk when he’s frustrated with something—Gautier men don’t talk about their feelings, if Miklan is any indication—and Felix is now curious if Sylvain is indeed preoccupied. Sure enough, Felix finds him sitting on a three-legged stool parallel to Suffolk in her stable, nailing a new horseshoe to the bottom of her hoof. The sound of metal striking metal bounces off the cedarwood walls of the stable, dimly lit by candlelight, and the clanging knocks against Felix’s skull as well.

Suffolk is old—she’s got grey flecking her mane now—but her eyes are still sharp, as she spots Felix before Sylvain does. She whinnies softly at him, causing Sylvain to look up from his work. He meets Felix’s eyes with his own, the flames of the candles dancing in his golden gaze, and Felix melts.

“Hey, Felix,” he greets with a shadow of a smile. Felix knows that look—he’s seen Sylvain give it to many, many women in the past. It’s shallow, empty. Felix feels anxious. “It’s not like you to come to the stables.”

Felix swallows his nerves and steps into Suffolk’s stable, closing the door behind him. “I was looking for you, actually,” he says.

Sylvain has returned to shoeing his horse, the last few strikes of the hammer ringing before he responds. “Ah,” he says. “That’s a surprise, I thought you were with Annette tonight.” There’s an edge to Sylvain’s voice when he speaks and, for a second, Felix dares to have a glimmer of hope.

“Annette and I aren’t together anymore,” Felix says pointedly. “We broke up a week ago.”

Sylvain’s eyebrows disappear beneath his bangs. “Oh?” he says, genuinely shocked. Felix is overcome with the urge to slap him. “What brought that on? You guys seemed happy together.”

“She’s in love with Mercedes,” Felix says. “You’ve seen them, surely.”

Sylvain opens his mouth as if to respond, then closes it, brow twisting with consideration. He hums to himself. “I guess they have been cozy as of late,” he agrees. “Well, I’m sorry to hear about that, Felix. Are you doing okay?”

 _Felix, Felix, Felix._ Sylvain hasn’t called him _Fe_ in weeks. “I’m fine, actually,” Felix replies, giving a noncommittal shrug. “It didn’t hurt as much as I expected.”

Sylvain drops his gaze from Felix, picking up his farrier’s rasp and rasping down the edges of Suffolk’s hoof wall. “That’s good to hear,” he says.

They settle into an uncomfortable silence as Felix watches Sylvain work, large hands moving swiftly with the rasp, the Gautier style not present in his handiwork. Felix remembers those hands on his arm and on his back, remembers the cold press of armor on his skin.

He’s bolder now.

“Turns out she’s not the only one,” Felix pipes up.

Sylvain tosses the rasp onto the bed of hay and picks up the hoof tester instead. “What do you mean?” he asks, not looking at Felix.

“I’m in love with someone else too,” Felix confesses.

“Yeah? Who’s that, then?” Sylvain sounds impatient. Felix wonders if he wants him to leave. Sylvain channeled his consternation through farrier’s tools, anyhow.

Felix decides he does not care. He has to get this off this chest, or else he might suffocate and Dorothea is correct—they _have_ to stop dancing around one another. Something has to give. Felix is _cracking._

“You.”

Sylvain drops the hoof tester.

Silence.

After a short moment full of all the tension Felix has ever felt in his entire life, ever, compressed into the four walls of the Garreg Mach stables, Sylvain barks out a laugh and bends over the stool to pick up the hoof tester again. “Good one, Felix,” he says, the mirth in his voice a stageplay. “Your sense of humor is awful.”

“I’m not joking, you idiot,” Felix says. “I’m serious. I’m in love with you and I’ve been in love with you for ten goddess-damned years. I dated Annette because she reminded me of you. I am completely and utterly _fucked up for you_ and I hate you for it.”

The emotional charge of his words surges over Felix, because by the end of that admission, he’s trembling from head to toe, knuckles white from clenching his fists at his sides, eyes never leaving Sylvain. Sylvain listens, turning the hoof tester around in his hands as if it’s most interesting thing he’s ever seen. When Felix’s voice falls, silence blankets them once more.

After another minute, Felix feels like his teeth are going to vibrate out of his skull. “Say something, dammit,” he rumbles.

Sylvain tosses the hoof tester onto the hay. Slowly, he stands up. In one swift motion, he turns and marches to Felix. Before Felix can react—speak, run, punch Sylvain—Sylvain grabs his face with his hands and pushes his lips against Felix’s.

Felix is struck by lightning—this time, though, it runs hotter through him than any of the other previous thunderbolts because _he’s kissing Sylvain_ and _Sylvain is kissing him_ and _oh Goddess fuck._ His lips—those lightly freckled lips that have tortured Felix in his dreams for years—are soft, but the force of the kiss is bruising and hungered. Felix gasps and Sylvain takes advantage, sliding his tongue into Felix’s mouth. Sylvain tastes like notes of alfalfa and mint—of perspiration, steel, barns.

It’s everything Felix has dreamed of.

They break away and Sylvain is regarding him like he’s starving, pupils blown wide and massive hands dwarfing Felix’s face. “Gods,” he blasphemes.

Felix’s thoughts are hazy—his thoughts are struggling to catch up with him, walled off with awe and fierce, fiery lust, finding purchase in his gut. He can’t think, he just wants Sylvain to kiss him again and again, to take him any way he wants—

Suffolk is staring at them.

“Not in front of the horse,” Felix says quickly.

Sylvain is already pawing at Felix’s shirt, trying to undo the buttons with clumsy fingers. “Suffolk’s seen worse,” Sylvain says, sounding breathless.

“Syl _vain_.” Felix keens as Sylvain’s mouth latches onto the crux where his jaw and neck meet, sucking a mark into the pliant flesh there. “We are not fucking in front of your horse.”

Sylvain chortles against his neck, the quake of his chest sending shockwaves through Felix’s veins. “I’ve been waiting for this for _years_ , Fe,” he croons. “I’ll fuck you in the reception hall if I have to.”

 _Years._ That word sears hot into Felix, the implication it carries as heavy as Sylvain’s lancework. Did Sylvain share the same moment Felix had, become affected by the same thunderstorm when Felix was twelve? Or had he already—even _before_ —

Felix’s thoughts dissolve into static as Sylvain rolls his hips into his and Felix immediately remembers how small he is in comparison to Sylvain—and the hardness ground firmly against him is a promise that every single inch of Sylvain is _big._ Inadvertently, Felix moans, and Sylvain swallows it with a hard kiss.

“I won’t be one of your women,” Felix retorts once they break away, breath mingling like lovers do. “Fuck me properly or not at all.”

Sylvain must have seen this accusation coming because he already has an answer, tripping over himself to reply. “Fuck, Goddess, Felix, never,” Sylvain gasps. He cards his hand through Felix’s hair, the scrape of his fingernails against Felix’s scalp divine. “Never. Only you. It’s only ever been you. It only ever _will be_ you, from now on.”

Felix feels weak. He’s going to faint, here in Sylvain’s strong, enveloping arms, in Suffolk’s stable, and he’s going to die because Sylvain has just promised him the earth itself. If Felix dies, he dies happy.

“My room,” Felix insists, once he’s brushed away the cotton lading his tongue. Sylvain eagerly complies, not even stopping to put away his farrier’s tools.

Felix is grateful for the cover of darkness, because Sylvain is touching him and groping him the entire way back to the dormitory and Felix has to stop him from crowding him into the stairway leading into the second floor.

The moment they cross the threshold into Felix’s room and the door is closed behind them, Sylvain sinks to his knees in front of Felix, eyes entreating with that silent plea that Felix could never deny.

“Insatiable,” Felix teases. Felix has called him that a thousand times before, but this is the first time that the piquancy is absent from it. He threads his fingers into Sylvain’s locks.

“Sweetheart,” Sylvain breathes, “for _you_.”

Any reply Felix had bubbling in the back of his throat dies as Sylvain scrabbles with his belt and pulls Felix’s cock, fully erect and leaking precome at the tip, out from his smallclothes. Sylvain hums contentedly, giving the shaft an experimental stroke. Felix can’t stop the loud moan that escapes him and Sylvain regards him approvingly beneath thick lashes.

“Insatiable,” Sylvain echoes, his tongue flicking out from between those sinful lips and giving a small kitten lick to the tip of Felix’s cock. Felix’s head falls back, knocking against the door.

Felix’s knees come dangerously close to buckling as Sylvain takes his cock into his mouth, the warm heat of his mouth—of _Sylvain_ ’s mouth, Felix’s dumb brain helpfully supplies—feeling like a blessing. Sylvain has clearly done this before, tongue expertly caressing the underside and rubbing circles beneath the head, slick mouth sliding back and forth with the skill of a man confident in his talents. Sylvain brings his hand up to grip Felix’s hip and Felix almost comes at the sensation.

Sylvain taps Felix’s hip, twice, and looks up at him again. Felix feels like fainting again at the sight of Sylvain’s lips stretched around his cock, freckled face flushed, spit dripping down his chin.

“Fucking hell, Sylvain,” he groans. He brings his other hand to cup the back of Sylvain’s head and begins to thrust in earnest into Sylvain’s hot, wet, wonderful mouth.

Felix’s cock muffles Sylvain’s moan; his eyes roll to the back of his head as he reached down between his legs. Distantly, Felix hears the rustle of fabric as Sylvain’s own erection is freed—just as Felix suspected, he’s huge, girthy and hard as he takes himself in hand. Felix watches, marveling at the way his hand wraps around his cock as he jerks himself to the timing of Felix’s thrusts.

“Goddess, fuck,” Felix swears, the sight breaking him. “Look at you, on your knees, sucking my cock, getting yourself off.” He’s babbling, making absolutely no sense to himself, but Felix cannot stop his mouth from moving. “Goddess, you’re such a slut.”

At that, Sylvain _moans_ with such force that Felix can feel it in his iliac crest. The pace of Sylvain’s hand quickens and, to match them, Felix makes sure to time his thrusts faster.

“Yeah, you like that? You like being called a slut?” Felix grunts. “It’s what you are. You’re a filthy whore, sleeping around with so many people, only to be so ruined for my cock. Did you think of me, Sylvain? Think of me when you got—“ Thrust. “Your—“ Thrust. “Throat—“ Thrust. “Fucked?”

The ensuing whine is so delicious that Felix thinks he could survive off the sound of it alone. How very Sylvain, to get off on degradation—but, Felix realizes foggily, he’s no better, because his orgasm is building and threatening to spill over.

Felix won’t let himself stop talking. “Too bad you’re all mine now,” he says. “You’re only my slut from now on. I’ll use you however I please, you can use me, and it’ll all be because you belong to _me_. You’re _mine, Sylvain._ ”

That was the finishing blow, because Sylvain shakes violently as he comes spurts into his hand, seed staining his button-down shirt. The sight is enough for Felix to follow him over the brink, coming deep into Sylvain’s throat, thoughts painted white.

Felix releases Sylvain’s hair as he pulls out and he takes the time to admire his handiwork. Sylvain is pink-cheeked, panting, a bit of Felix’s come dripping out of the corner of his mouth. He’s holding his softening cock in his fist, seed cooling on his hand. His amber eyes are blissful.

“I love you,” Sylvain purrs before Felix can speak.

Felix loves him too, of course—but it’s not until after they’ve cleaned up and Felix is curled into Sylvain’s chest that he’s hopeful enough to say it back.

* * *

It’s springtime again. Felix is back in Fraldarius.

The war is over, thankfully. Dimitri had been successful in crushing Edelgard’s reign and was the crown reagent of Faergus. Mercedes and Annette got married, Felix thinks—he really can’t remember their wedding, there was too much alcohol and too much groping from Sylvain in the Dominic house closets.

The annual Fraldarius first hunt of the springtime is back on again, having been postponed to focus on the war effort. The crow’s feet around Rodrigue’s eyes aren’t as creased this time.

This time, that shock of red hair roaming over the Fraldarius horizon is unaccompanied—the Margrave is occupied with peace talks with Alliance nobles, Sylvain claims as the stableboy takes his mount. Felix just wonders if Sylvain talked Margrave Gautier out of coming with him—they haven’t told their fathers about them yet, and Felix is fine with that, honestly. Rodrigue is going to be disappointed, the Margrave might fly into a rage, and Felix thinks a secret relationship has its own allure.

Sylvain plays up that allure as they saddle up for the hunt, talking Felix into bringing a blanket with him so they can “take a break” in the woods, away from prying eyes. Felix snorts at him and lectures him about the importance of the tradition of the Fraldarius hunt.

(There’s a blanket in his saddlebag.)

During the hunt, while pursing a fawn on foot, Felix twists his ankle and Sylvain is by his side right away, offering a hand and a place on Suffolk’s back. For once, Felix doesn’t protest and sidles in behind him.

Felix wraps his arms around Sylvain’s waist and presses his cheek against the grating wool of Sylvain’s coat. The sun is shining.

“Doing okay?” Sylvain asks him in that brassy baritone of his.

Felix is okay. Felix is the okayest he’s ever been in his life.

“Always,” he says.

* * *

It’s the first hunt in years that Felix decides he does not hate.

**Author's Note:**

> the smut was rushed but I was tired sorry
> 
> I will learn Esperanto just so I can write Sylvix smut in Esperanto


End file.
